Ralphie, wasn't it?  From A Christmas Story?  Well imagine Ralphie but erase the cuteness and add an element of pigginess.  There you have our Federico, the boy upstairs.  He's the one whose dad sings at the top of his lungs all day.  Supposedly he teaches but I don't know when.  And whose mom lives in  heels.  She vacuums in heels.  For an hour.  Every day.  These are small apartments people, how much vacuuming can you possibly need? And who vacuums in heels?  She's like a Stepford Wife except she also works 10 hours a day because her wacky husband is home singing!  So back to Ralphie/Federico.  Last month he thought he was a super hero so he banged around upstairs jumping from burning buildings and defeating villains.  Now he's a dog.  Every time he goes in or out he woofs loudly.  He also loves to play with something, (a marble?), on the tile floor right over the head of my bed.  Clunk, rattle, rattle, rattle, stop.  Clunk, rattle, rattle, rattle, stop.  When he's not saving a life or driving me to drink with his marble, he's sneaking food.  His mother screams at him because he got into the cookies or jam or something.  She can tell because he leaves telltale signs all over his face.  He evidently hasn't figured out how to use a napkin yet.  This kid is 8.  And how do I know all this?  The family lives life with the volume turned up.  They don't speak, they yell.  They don't walk, they stomp.  They don't close the door, they slam it.  And they don't seem to like each other very much.  Weekends when they are all home is one loud bitch session after another.  That's when it's best for us to leave.  Ah, apartment life.  xxoo me